


Cuts both ways

by Beleriandings



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Helcaraxë, Important haircuts, M/M, Terrible Coping Mechanisms, past Finrod/Amarië and Fingon/Maedhros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-28 08:45:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10081982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beleriandings/pseuds/Beleriandings
Summary: Under the cold, dark skies of the Helcaraxë, the strictures of life in Tirion break down; there is so much between them, but perhaps that's what makes it inevitable.





	

Findaráto started a little, as Findekáno held out a knife to him. “Help me cut it” he said, bluntly.

“….What?”

Findekáno must have seen something in his eyes that made him relent, as he drew back. Perhaps, thought Findaráto, he had noticed the presumably unintended significance of the gesture, a kinslayer thrusting out a knife towards his half-Telerin cousin, sheathed though it was. They were all learning to see untold significance in simple actions; funny how that was true even as far away from the posturing of the Ñoldorin court as it was possible to get, it seemed. Even out here in the frozen waste, they were learning new cautions, remoulding the subtle signals that they sent each other in light of each new scene of horror they left in their wake.

“My hair” said Findekáno, staring him straight in the eye, unflinching. Findekáno’s eyes had always been so warm back in Tirion, casting back the Treelight in dancing blue, like the sparkle on the waves in Alqualondë harbour at the mingling hour. Now, though, in the cold ghost lights that danced feverishly in the frozen sky overhead, the colour was drawn from them. Everyone’s eyes shone back the light here, glassy as gemstones and just as cold and hard with the sheer resolve it took to have survived this long.

Findekáno had hardened his heart more than any of them, Findaráto thought, with a mixture of sympathy and anger. His own cousin, who had killed at Alqualondë, who journeyed with them, distancing himself from his family and his father to protect them. Breaking his own heart daily and toiling under the weight of his sins, because he knew the Ñoldor could be saved. Findekáno, who never lost hope, except perhaps for himself.

Findaráto nearly ground his teeth. _How selfish_.

He took the knife slowly, still meeting Findekáno’s gaze. To cut one’s hair…. that was the ultimate sign of contrition, of humility, but here it was the most practical thing to do, so many of their people had done so for that reason. Though so far, none of the royal family.    

But here was Findekáno, trusting Findaráto to do it for him. He looked at the sheathed knife, the work of Fëanor, like as not. Findekáno owned several such knives, from the years of gifts both ceremonial and intensely personal, and Findaráto suspected that using such a blade to cut his hair was exactly the sort of symbolism that would appeal to someone like his cousin. His fingers curled around the hilt. “Alright. I will.”

They were sitting on a pile of furs in Findekáno’s cramped one-man tent when Findaráto finally touched the knife to his skin, holding it under the bunch of braids at the nape of Findekáno’s neck. Normally, hair was cut wet, but here getting wet was practically a death sentence, water freezing in seconds and robbing precious life-giving warmth from the blood. So the knife rasped against the underside of Findekáno’s thick, dry braids, dull and lifeless from lack of care.

Findaráto hesitated for a moment which stretched out for what seemed like a life-age, their breath misting in the eery blue glow of a lampstone and the warm red of a tiny burner, vital warmth breathed away with every moment. If he hadn’t been wearing gloves, Findaráto knew his hands might well have frozen to the metal by now.    

“Do it” said Findekáno, through gritted teeth, as Findaráto held the knife against his skin at the nape of his neck for a fraction of a second more. Findaráto couldn’t see his face. “Just… do it now.”

Findaráto nodded. He wasn’t going to patronise his cousin by asking if he truly wanted this. The time for that was over. Clenching his jaw, he hacked into the hair from beneath, making Findekáno’s breath hitch in his chest. It was surprisingly hard, cutting through the tight braids, and it took Findaráto a few moments of sawing to get through it. The knife was too blunt. But he persisted, putting the strength of his shoulder into it, biting down on his lip and ignoring the small, vulnerable  sounds Findekáno was making. Certainly ignoring any and all satisfaction it might have brought him.  

When he was done, he uncurled his stiff fingers and the hair fell in thick braided hanks at his knees.      

Findekáno swallowed, breathing hard as Findaráto made to lay the knife to one side, the nervous flickering of the golden-brown skin of his neck that showed above his furs accentuated by the dim light. He looked so much younger as he turned to face Findaráto, almost vulnerable; but that was until Findaráto saw his eyes. They were dark now, burning with some purpose or resolve that Findaráto couldn’t quite pinpoint.

“Here” said Findaráto. “Let me make it all the same length, at least.”

But Findekáno ignored him, his hand clenching around Findaráto’s in which the knife was still clasped, so that he couldn’t put it down. Findekáno wasn’t touching the metal himself, but his bare hand was clenched around Findaráto’s gloved one, his grip firm.

“Finno…”

“ _Don’t_ call me that” said Findekáno, his voice hollow, impossible to interpret. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, something wild and strange and _wanting_.

Suddenly, Findaráto understood. “….Oh.”

Findekáno said nothing, but kissed him at the same time Findaráto moved in; their mouths collided with too much force, teeth catching lips hard enough to bruise. It was graceless, clumsy and painful, but at least it was _real_. All around the world was senseless, deadly misfortune, frozen and lifeless things. The dead locks of dry hair were still amongst the furs they knelt on, pressed close by the cramped space defined for them by the tent. Outside, the world was terrifyingly large and dark and cold; inside, the two of them filled the space and were here, and alive, and _oh, Valar_ , thought Findaráto as Findekáno bit at his lips, _was it good to feel again_.  Pain, pleasure, anything to know he was alive.

Findekáno hissed with pain as his hand came in contact with the cold metal blade, through the gap between Findaráto’s fingers.

“You should wear gloves” said Findaráto, as he came up for air after biting at Findekáno’s newly-exposed neck, peeling open the stiff collar of his furs.

“Shut up” said Findekáno, from somewhere above his head, his hand dropping Findaráto’s hand and slipping into Findaráto’s own hair instead, loosing it from its bun. That would cause problems with tangling later, Findaráto knew, but right now he couldn’t bring himself to care. Findekáno’s hand was cold against his scalp, but the way it dragged his head back to expose his throat was intoxicating.

Findaráto took off his gloves.

There wasn’t much they could do, here; they were limited to hurriedly parting their furs by the cold, enough to slip in icy fingers that heated up at the touch of skin. Several times, Findaráto caught himself wondering what Findekáno would look like spread out luxuriantly over his great prince’s bed back home in Tirion, or beneath the gauzy curtains of his mother’s summer villa in Alqualondë, on the sea cliffs. He supposed he would never know; back then, he had had Amarië, and Findekáno had had their cousin Maitimo, and the two of them would never have looked at each other as lovers. If that was even what one could call this. Technically it was true, Findaráto thought, but it still seemed wrong. Findekáno’s touches held passion, yes, and all the desperation of the great lovers of the songs and stories they had both listened to and loved so well as children. But there was both less and more than that between them, and each touch felt like a challenge, the opening gambit in a battle, a bizarre competition to settle the tension that thickened the air of the small tent. Findekáno seemed to crave touch, sensation, the cold of Findaráto’s hands slipping beneath his furs making him cry out through bitten lips.

At last Findekáno twitched and writhed under Findaráto’s touch, eyelids fluttering and throat spasming as he shuddered to his release. Findaráto couldn’t see his own hand within Findekáno’s furs, but he felt the hot spurting stickiness spill obscenely over the back of his hand; he withdrew it, licking the back of his hand before the wetness froze, shivering as the colder air touched it even so.

Findekáno was shuddering still, lying on his back and staring up at Finrod with half-lidded eyes in the dim light, his expression unreadable as the spasms of pleasure left him.

“Get on your back, Ingo” he said, quietly. When Findaráto did nothing, Findekáno scrambled up with difficulty in the cramped space, pushing him down and tugging open Findaráto’s furs before he could protest. He hissed, as the unexpected cold rush of air hit his chest. Findekáno smiled, something steely behind it, running an icy cold finger down Findaráto’s chest that made him draw in his breath even more sharply.  

Findekáno’s mouth, when it inevitably found his cock, was the heat that Findaráto had missed for… well, who knew how long. He had long ago stopped counting.  

His head fell backwards on the furs, cold hands fisting in Findekáno’s newly shorn hair - unbound, short-cropped braids unravelling in his clasping fingers - as Findekáno used his mouth like an expert, swallowing him down then coming back up again to lick the head, with just the faintest deliberate scrape of teeth.    

 _Maitimo had been fortunate indeed, back in those long lost days_.

It didn’t last long. It had been so long since anyone had touched Findaráto that he came too soon, but then, he supposed, if they drew it out any longer they’d probably both get frostbite. There was no room for real indulgence, not out here; any encounter between them was necessarily swift, perfunctory, fulfilling a need that they both shared, though Findaráto was not entirely convinced it was quite the same need.

Not that he cared much. Afterwards, he let Findekáno help him do up his furs once more, picking up what he could of the hair that he had cut off from the furs in which Findekáno would sleep tonight. Last of all, he handed Findekáno the dagger; both their hands lingered on it for a long moment, and their eyes met.

Again, Findekáno’s eyes were unreadable, as he took the dagger with deliberation.

It would remain by Findekáno as he slept, after Findaráto left to return to the tent he shared with his own siblings. It was only later that night - everything was night here, but there were hours when they slept and woke, the same as at home - that Findaráto turned over the events of the day in his head, and wondered whether he should have perhaps taken the blade with him, away from Findekáno’s lingering eyes and dwelling thoughts.

Still, he had resigned himself to the fact that he had done nothing, and in the morning - no, it couldn’t really be called morning, but then they referred to a lot of things by incorrect names here - there was Findekáno looking the same as ever, but with his hair shorn away at the neck. Well, at least that proved that it hadn’t all been some strange dream. The look that Findekáno gave him was different today, with a little more understanding, and as soon as Findaráto saw it he knew that yesterday would likely be only the first of many such encounters.

They were learning every day how their new world would be, and shaping it as they went; if this was part of it, well… Findaráto would take it. At least it was proof that they were still alive.


End file.
